Poem 380

A poem for my fellow citizens of the breeziest city in the world … 

The Wind

The wind is blowing
                                             we can be sure of that
it's the kind that lifts flags high
      unfurls hair constantly in movement
as if the back of your head has caught fire
       seeds 
wing it to different locales
thistledown at various levels passing
on blue escalators

                                      the wind is blowing
shaping oceans
teasing out cloud
scraping its bow on the fine hairs
of your body filling your puff sleeves
your friends are vanishing
one at a time in slow motion
over a cliff

whatever way you walk 
is into the wind
you're going to stagger down a quay
until you take off and steer
uncertainly in the full furious air afraid
the movement of one finger will whip
and tumble you
                                shoot you
up into the sky with waterspouts
frogs and small fish

                                        goodbye Wellington